


ready (or not)

by Humanities_Handbag



Series: Darkwing Duck Drabbles [2]
Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Drake Mallard is never ready, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Tumblr Prompt, but he tries his best, lots of soccer practice, take my garbage fire!, you can warm your hands by the flame!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 14:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18994099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: prompt # 95 on tumblr: "are you ready for this?"-drake mallard tries his best to be ready.(he usually fails.)





	ready (or not)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunnikkila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnikkila/gifts).



It was a miracle that he somehow managed to drag out of bed before 7 am, bribed her into eating breakfast, and finally wrangled her into nice clothes (keyword for clean and not covered in sports logos), which he was in the process of straightening for the thousandth time when the secretary came out from behind a large oak paneled door and called their name.

“Mallard and Waddlemeyer?” 

“Just a minute.” His voice shook more than he wanted to admit. So did his fingers when he moved to pull at the hem of her shirt again.

“Mr. Mallard!” Gosalyn pushed his hands away, crossing her arms. “It’s  _fine_.”

“Right,” he nodded a little too hard, twisting his hands back to his own shirt, giving the sweater vest a tug.

God - he was wearing a sweater vest. He knew he should have worn the suit. The suit was so much better. Maybe he could reschedule for later? Go home and change into a suit-

“Mr. Mallard,” Gosalyn whined again. “Come  _on_!”

“Mallard and Waddlemeyer,” the secretary said again, looking at them over her clipboard with a face that said  _my break was supposed to be right now_. 

He gave her hand a squeeze. “Sorry… We should go in.”

“Yeah, no duh!”

“I just need a second.”

“You already had a second. You’ve had a lot of seconds. It’s boring out here!” Furrowing her brow, she glared up at him. “You promised we could get ice cream after. If we don’t leave, we can’t get ice cream!”

He had promised that.

Whatever flavor she’d wanted.

It was the only way he’d been able to get her out of the house on time. And now he’s the one stuck in place, trying to find a way to unstick his legs from where they’re bolted onto the beige carpet.

He totally wasn’t ready for this. He was  _beyond_  not ready for this. There was a swarm of static in his head:

What if he did something wrong?

What if he wasn’t right for this?

What if he was diving in too fast and she could have had better and he should have just stuck to being a superhero and he was useless if he was out of a mask and-

Her little fingers slipped into his hand, jolting him back to the beige room. So very tiny and breakable and holding onto him.

His heart quivers -

twists

beats

settles

-and he gives her hand a squeeze.

She leans backwards on her heels, tugging his hand for balance, and doesn’t seem to notice or care the soft way he watches her. “Come on! Are you ready for this, or what?

He’s not. 

(But he goes anyway.)

* * *

When the judge looks over all their paperwork and interview transcripts and house evaluations, and finally stamps the adoption forms, taking signatures from both Drake and Gosalyn, promising that name change forms would be delivered in the next few weeks (“but don’t hold your breath - this system takes its damn time”) Darkwing will pull her close and hold her like that, feeling every tiny bone in her body through his arms when he winds his arms tight.

“Mr. Mallard,” she said again. “Ice cream!”

“Right.”

“You promised.”

“I did.” He held her tighter. “Give me this, slugger.”

She sighed too loudly, but indulged him with a hug. But after another dramatic sigh, he got the message and pulled back, laughing. He offered his hand. She took it. “Alright,” he said. “You ready?”

She is. 

(More than he thinks he’ll ever be)

* * *

She doesn’t call him dad yet, but he’s alright with that. They’re both moving at their own speed, and he’s not sure if he’s quite ready to move that quick, either.

Because it’s ridiculous how quickly he’s getting used to the things around him. And that, in itself, is terrifying. The juice boxes and gold fish in the cupboards, the sports schedule on the wall, the vacuum cleaner inside the closet, the apron hanging up by the stove. The changes came quickly, and without thought, and it wouldn’t be long before his house was his and hers, and he was alright with all of it.

Somehow. 

He tells himself he’s alright to take things day by day even as the changes happen too quickly to watch. 

And then it’s nighttime, weeks later, and Gosalyn is coming down the stairs in her pajamas. Her hair is down for once, still a little damp, and her feathers need to be preened desperately, clumped together and warm from the bath water. He’s watching television, and Launchpad is next to him, reading some airplane manual and writing ideas in the margins.

He sees her first. “Night, Gos,” Launchpad said with a wave.

She waved his way, yawning.

Drake glanced down from the television. “I thought you were supposed to be in bed.”

“Yeah…”

“So.” He wiggled his fingers towards the stairs. “Scoot.”

She would. But first, she moved until she was in front of him, falling forward to wrap her arms around his middle. It was a little awkward, a little nervous, a little shy. She wasn’t good at affection, but she was trying, and when she pressed her face into his chest, he could feel her breaths shivering there, burning up the front of his sweater. “Night,” she rumbled quietly.

He tucked his arms around her, ignoring the way Launchpad pretended to stare at his book but was glancing over anyways, smiling.

Drake tells himself he can move slowly.

But he’s so impossibly in love with this girl that it’s  _stupid_.

“Bedtime,” he tells her finally.

She snuggled to his side, managing to crawl onto the couch despite the way she was still tangled up against him. “Not yet…”

“Yes yet. Go.” He dropped a kiss to her red hair and wondered if she could hear the way his heart was thundering. “Now, Gos.”

She pressed her beak against his ribs. “You gotta let go if I’m gonna leave,” she pointed out fairly.

He should let her go. He should send her to bed. She had school and soccer practice the next day, and it would be Hell to get her up in the morning, like it was almost every morning, and there were a million reasons to send her up.

Drake finds he can’t. He’s not quite ready. Not yet.

“___ ___ ___” says Gosalyn into his side. 

He’s moving quickly. But he doesn’t care. Even if he’s not ready for any of it. He falls towards it, anyway. 

“Few more minutes,” he tells her, and leans his head against her hair.

* * *

Drake Mallard has a life packed with Superhero duties. He loved it all - the danger, the excitement, the praise, fame, glory. Working for SHUSH took up time, and he was happy to give as much of it as they wanted.

Until he was digging through closets, busy with his own, personal detective work.

“You know,” one of SHUSH’s managers and case distributors, Mr. Roost, told him over the phone, voice rumbling with barely held back distaste, “you could take more cases with us. It would probably boost your rep over at HQ. We could actually work together for once.” He’d called Darkwing that day, asking if he’d be interested in a new case just outside the city. A villain who’d tunneled through the pipes, lacing water with some sort of bizarre laughing serum.

He’d politely declined.

“My rep is fine. And I already have someone I work with, thank you.”

“It could be better.”

“I’m top five. It’s fine.”

“Like I said - better.” He sighed. Drake heard him lean forward, the springs in his chair creaking. “You could be our top agent. You know that? You could lead at one. That comes with all sorts of crazy benefits. Lectures, hosting opportunities. You could have a lot more great publicity.”

“Yeah, well, I’m busy today- AH HAH!” He held his hand high in the air triumphantly. A soccer bag hung from his fist. “Gosalyn! Can you try and put your bag where it belongs  _for once_!”

“You found it!” She ran down the stairs two at a time. “Keen gear, Mr. Mallard!”

“Yeah. Well. We’d have less trouble finding it if you put it on the shelf I built for you- sorry Mr. Roost. Gotta go. We’re running late already-“

“Darkwing. Think about what I sa-“

Drake hung up the phone, unzipping the bag and handing Gosalyn her away jersey and cleats.

“Who was that?”

“Work.” She’d already jammed her feet into her shoes and he dropped to his knee to help her tighten the laces. “They had a case for me today.”

“You took it?” When her face popped out of her jersey, it had fallen. Eyes huge and sullen, making her small form seem even smaller for a moment.

He reached out, giving one of her pigtails a tug, and she squeaked, batting his hand away. “Course not, slugger! Can’t miss you grinding your enemies into the dirt.”

She jumped up (narrowly missing clocking him in the face) and screamed something about racing him to the car before running out the door. He took his time, slinging her soccer bag over her shoulder. “Mr. Mallard! I already beat you! Come on! Are you ready!”

* * *

He sat front row in the bleachers and didn’t think first place in SHUSH meant much of anything when you were top five and your daughter could score six goals on her own.

“Mr. Mallard!” She called out once before the last few seconds of the game, the ref having called a time out. She waved at him, jumping up and down. “Are you ready! Watch this!”

She scored her seventh goal when they blew the whistle.

* * *

 

Drake Mallard is totally and completely lost.

He doesn’t tell Launchpad that. But Launchpad knows, because although the man can’t seem to keep one bit of equipment from breaking, he seems to have the emotional capacity of a guru.

“It’s really great that you’ve got Gosalyn,” he says, helping Drake get dinner ready, standing at the stove while Drake set the table for three. “It’s nice having her around.”

“When she’s not breaking things. She still hasn’t actually managed to clean her room, you know.”

Launchpad snorted, turning down the burners and leaning against the counter to watch his partner set a jug of water in the center. “You kind of knew she wouldn’t when you got her. Signed up for the messy room and broken lamps and everything.”

“I did. Didn’t I.” When Drake laughed it was a soft one. A fond one. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like I didn’t know what I was in for.” He shrugged, poking at a form. “Sometimes I think it’s a little too much for even Darkwing Duck to handle.”

Gosalyn chose that moment to run down the stairs, her stomach apparently tuning into the smell coming from downstairs. Drake snapped himself up straighter. Launchpad clicked the burners off.

“Finally! I was starving-“

“Ah! Washing hands first, Little Miss!”

“Come on, Mr. Mallard!”

He pointed. “Hands!”

She scampered away with a groan and he heard the tap click on. She was definitely splashing water everywhere. He rolled his eyes.

Launchpad drifted past to drop a platter of something that smelled spicy on the table next to the jug of water. “You know. Not for nothing, but if Darkwing Duck can’t handle things, then it’s a Good think Drake Mallard’s seems ready.” He clapped Drake on the shoulder, paying little mind to his friends suddenly watery eyes.

By the time Gosalyn was back, wet sleeves and all, Drake was sitting next to Launchpad like nothing had happened. She clambered up her chair, tugging Drake’s sleeve. “Come on! We gonna eat or what!”

Launchpad was wrong. 

Drake Mallard isn’t ready. 

But he does it anyway, because the little girl next to him talks about soccer and television and new ideas for superheroes, and her red hair bobs around whenever she animates her hands, and he’s so completely happy that it’s ridiculous. 

He might not be ready. 

But he has all the time in the world to wait for it. 

* * *

Gosalyn loved that he was Darkwing Duck.

And he loved that  _she_  loved he was Darkwing Duck. It was like having your own little fan club inside the house. And god knows his big head needed more praise.

“You know how cool everyone thinks I am,” she told him on the car ride back from soccer practice one day. “There’s pictures out of me with Darkwing Duck. Everyone keeps asking if I know him.”

He looked back at her in the rearview mirror, smirking. “Yeah, well, glad I can bump your rep, kid.”

She grinned. “You’ve bumped it for  _life_.”

“This doesn’t get you out of cleaning your room.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. He stuck his out back, turning left down their street.

Gosaslyn watched the houses pass by. “Hey, Mr. Mallard?”

“Hmm?” He rolled up their driveway, turning off the ignition. “How much could someone pay you to take off your mask in front of them.”

He turned around in the seat, eyebrow raised. His daughter, he was learning, was practically bursting with cons she’d repackaged as business ventures. “Why?”

“Because some of the kids on my team said that they’d pay me if I could get you to pose without your mask.” She grinned, saccharine, batting her eyes. “I told them I’d ask my sources what you’d say.”

He snorted, opening his door. “Trust me, kid,” he said, rounding the car to open her door. “You can’t afford it.”

She stuck her tongue out at him again.

* * *

Darkwing Duck thought about it a lot:

How much would someone have to pay him to take off his mask?

A heroes mask was his identity. And his identity was his everything. So for a time, he decides that it would have cost them millions for him to reveal himself. No. It would have cost them their billions. No.

It would have cost them the world.

And then his daughter had fallen, and the world collapsed.

“Come on,” he snarled. She was tight to his chest, his cape over the both of them. Rain fell in torrents, soaking him through. Turf cut into his knees. She shivered. Her little hands (so tiny, so absolutely tiny) curled in his costume and held tight as they could but (“Don’t you dare- you hear me? Gosalyn? Gosalyn, I’m Darkwing- I’m your  _father_ \- and don’t you- don’t you  _dare_ -“) it wasn’t tight enough.

So he grabbed her hands and held for the both of them.

She hadn’t been following him on a case. She hadn’t been running around with Honker or following her own cases. She hadn’t been ignoring his rules or sneaking off or pulling some elaborate scheme. She’d been at soccer practice when Negaduck had decided to make an appearance and mow down the field with a spray of bullets.

And Gosalyn-

(brave)

(resourceful)

(stubborn)

(wonderful)

(stupid stupid stupid)

- _his_  Gosalyn had jumped into action and had ushered the other players off the team when one stray shot had flown off its mark and found a new one.

By the time he’d arrived on scene, Negaduck was spouting one liners, trying to get his attention any way he could, but would lose it to the screams and cries and demands from a man he definitely knew (Gosalyn’s soccer coach, who he’d been on the phone with every single fucking week, arranging every single fucking game, and transportation, and carpooling and orange slices, and practice schedules) - screaming, “ _call an ambulance! Someone needs to- don’t just stand there! Call an ambulance_.“

Within the smudges of panic, he hears her name.

Negaduck never went down faster than when Darkwing had turned towards the familiar and saw-

Red.

Red hair.

Red jersey.

Red… red… red…

That had been all that mattered.

* * *

The crowd of people, who’d only seen Darkwing from a distance, were surprised when they’d turned and the hero was running across the field. One of them flagged him down, pointing to the child in the middle. Said something about  _we’ve got it handled_  and  _can you call for help?_  but he was already shoving them aside.

“Gosalyn?” His voice broke. The rest of him was following in time.

Her coach had quickly pushed people away, yelling to make room and go find help. Standing by wouldn’t do anyone any good. But he was back soon enough, sitting next to the hero carefully on the grass.

Sits down at exactly the wrong moment, when Gosalyn blinks, eyes huge and shocked and confused, body stiff, and rasps, “dad?”

“M’here,” Darkwing had said, not caring who heard. Not caring who knew. Pressing his face to her red hair, clinging to her red jersey. Closing his eyes against all the red.

The rain had started then. They’d been ready to play through it, checking all the weather reports beforehand, but the field lay in ruins and the players were all clinging to parents on the outskirts, crying and trembling.

The coach stares at him, blinking.  _Knowing_.

“Dad…” Gosalyn squeaks again. Her breathing hitches. She’s small behind the cape. Darkwing smoothes down her hair and murmurs something.

“… Mr. Mallard?” The coach stares at Darkwing Duck.

Darkwing Duck looks up. And suddenly he’s not so much of a hero anymore. Sitting in front of the coach is a parent and his child. The coach swallows. “I called an ambulance.”

Darkwing Duck-  _Drake Mallard_  -nodded into Gosalyn’s hair. The coach hears him hiss something. “Don’t you dare-“ he says, rough and choked. “Don’t you dare.” He wheezed through another deep inhale. “Not ready.”

The coach sits down next to them and stays until the ambulance arrives.

* * *

The mask was meant to protect your identity. But identity doesn’t matter much when the one thing that can shatter it does, and when they’re riding towards a hospital, howling through rain slicked streets, masks are useless.

The EMT’s don’t say anything when Darkwing Duck, four minutes away from a hospital, gripping the girl’s hand while they strap on oxygen masks and plunge needles through soft, yellow, duckling feathers, rips off his mask so she can see his face when she looks for him against bumpy roads and wires. It falls to the floor, crushed under feet and gurney wheels. And then Darkwing Duck is gone. And in his place is someone with worry lines and wrinkles and soft, scared eyes. 

“I’m here,” says the man the EMT’s don’t know. Three minutes and fifty three seconds away, he smoothes down feathers on her face and tries to assure. “I’m here. I’m- don’t you  _dare_.”

They all know Darkwing Duck. But this man…

None of them say anything.

They ask him questions without mentioning much else. “What’s her name?” One of them asks. She was a young girl. Only a month into the job and already watching a hero fall. He was holding the girls hand.

His own trembled.

“Gosalyn,” he said, three minutes and fifteen seconds away from a hospital. “Gosalyn Mallard.” He reached into his pocket with a free hand and passed over a wallet with a rough “here" barely taking his eyes away from the girl.

Two minutes away from a hospital, holding a wallet in her hands, Tiffany learns who hid behind a mask as easily as sliding out a drivers license. 

**DRAKE MALLARD**

**34 EGRET LANE**

One minute and thirty four seconds away from a hospital, the girls eyes stutter close, and a hero who’d never been ready to let an identity go slowly felt it

                               tear

                                                                fall

                                                                                                crumble

 

 

away.

* * *

The young EMT meets him later in a little room they’d let him hide away in while Gosalyn had been taken to surgery. The man… Darkwing Duck… Drake Mallard sits alone on a plastic chair.

She hands him his wallet. “I won’t tell anyone.”

His hand shakes when he takes it. His eyes were scrubbed red, and his voice was a tightrope. He teetered. “She called me dad,” he said. “I just adopted…” his shoulders fell forward. “She called me… and I tried- I can’t…” He looked up at the EMT. “I’m not ready to do this without her.”

She left and hid away in the bathroom to privately break on her own.

* * *

If there were some good things about the job, even a month in, it’s when the young EMT got to tell a father that his daughter was going to be alright.

She had lived in the city her entire life. She’d watched Darkwing Duck conquer over villains, save lives, gloat for the camera, and do it all again and again. She’d seen him flip across skyscrapers and flash smiles and winks. She’d seen him triumph.

She didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at him the same way when Darkwing Duck wrapped her tight in a hug only a father could give. “Thank you,” he said, as if, for once, she’d saved the day. “Thank you  _so much_.”

Her coworkers would later ask about Darkwing Duck. How he’d repaid her. What he’d looked like beneath the mask. Who the young girl had been, and why he’d known her.

She didn’t say anything. Not even when, hours later, a man in a pink shirt and a green vest walked up the counter and extended his driver’s license to her at the front desk. “Drake Mallard,” he said, voice rough with tears.

There was an overnight bag slung under his arm and a stuffed animal under the other.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mallard,” she said, and showed him to his daughters room. “You don’t have to be ready to do anything without her yet,” she says to the father, opening the door to the girls room. The smell of antiseptic is strong. There’s a steady beep from inside.

He smiled, tired and worn, stepping inside. “Don’t think I ever could be.”

* * *

There’s a scar on Gosalyn’s chest, right under her shoulder, and he despises it. And when she finally wakes up twelve hours later, groggy and confused and drugged, he makes sure to tell her that.

“Stupid,” he says, helping her sit up so he could pull a more comfortable shirt over her head (the red one she loved so much, but god wasn’t he getting so tired of red). “That was the stupidest thing you could’ve done, Gosalyn. I can’t believe- I can’t believe you’d even  _try_.”

She blinked up at him, eyes surprisingly mournful and scared. “Sorry, dad.” Her voice quivered. She reached up and touched the little spot the scars sat. In the bed, she looked small. Tiny. Too awfully, terribly, terribly tiny.

“Yeah. Well. You should be.”

“I didn’t think about it. I just… I just did it. And then I didn’t know what to do…” She sniffled. “It happened and I didn’t think you’d know- I didn’t know if you’d be there- You were being Darkwing and I didn’t think-“ She wiped her eyes. “People  _saw_.”

She’d been afraid he’d stay back to protect an identity, not realizing that his entire self was so wholly based on  _her_  that if she’d gone, he’d have melted away.

“You’re an idiot,” he tells her, reaching across the small bed and itchy sheets and knotted wires to wrap his arms around her. She clings tight. Her face presses hard into his chest, and he feels her breathe deep. “Darkwing Duck doesn’t matter.”

“Dad-“

“No. It doesn’t matter. End of story.” He reached back enough to pull his fingers through her tangled hair. “Darkwing Duck can go suck an egg. Your father’s a little busy being your father right now. And your father loves you a damn lot more than keeping some stupid secret.”

He stays until she’s ready to let go.

And even when she is -when the drugs kick in, and she starts to drift off again - he isn’t.

So he holds on.

* * *

“You called me dad,” he tells her later, kicking his feet up on the little hospital bed.

It’s after she’s said it a few times.

_Dad, pass me that comic._

_Dad, you’re snoring, wake up._

_Dad, I have a new idea for a superhero name. Quiverwing Quack! She’s way stronger than Darkwing Duck._

_Dad, I want jello. But only the green kind_.

It finally clicked into place. He hadn’t been ready for it. 

She looks at him over her comic. His eyes are shining, like he’s suddenly realizing something again. “Can I have jello? The green kind?” Her tongue popped out. “The other flavors are gross.”

“You called me  _dad_ ,” he said again, sitting forward.

“So?”

“You called me- Didn’t even remember that you-“

“Well yeah, duh,” said Gosalyn, burrowing in her comic again. “Because you are.” Then; “can I have jello, now?”

He’s not ready for a lot of things:

Goldfish.

Juice boxes.

Red.

“Dad,” she says, her face pressed fast against his sweater, “stop being a total dork! Let go!”

“Can’t.”

“The nurses said you couldn’t touch me!”

“Too bad- fatherly rules outweigh bureaucracy.”

“That’s so not true!”

“It’s true somewhere.”

“Your sweaters  _itchy_!”

“Deal with it.”

She did deal with it, but not quietly. Groaning, like it was a chore, but folding against him anyway, softening. She’s small in his arms, and he can almost cover her completely between them. The doctors had mentioned something to him in the days she’d been out- low recorded hatching weight, smaller than average, small bones. A strong, tiny girl who’d get stronger and bigger with proper care and love.

For now he envelops her, keeps her there, wonders what he did before juice boxes and goldfish.

He kissed her head hard and squeezed his eyes tight. She smelled like antiseptic and laundry soap and the watermelon shampoo she loved that he had to buy in bulk because she wouldn’t bathe without it. It helped offset the sting behind his eyes.

“You’re such a dork,” she says again, muffled by green sweater. “Darkwing Duck’s cooler.”

“Totally,” he agreed.

She squirmed, tightening her arms. “… you’re better, though.”

“Totally,” he said again.

They let go when they’re ready, and he goes out to find her jello. He can only find her the blue kind. She eats it anyway.

* * *

When Gosalyn’s finally allowed to move again (courtesy of a wheelchair) Launchpad comes over, and Drake was given at least a little break to go home and shower. On the way out, he thanked the EMT’s again. Learned that her name was Tiffany and she was sixteen years old, and this had been one of her first jobs. And she’d had to see a child nearly fade, and learned the name of their cities Superhero on the same night. 

“I won’t tell,” the younger woman said to him, lowering her voice. “Promise.“ 

He nodded. Smiled. “I appreciate it.”

She watches him carefully. He was different than what she’d expected. Tired, a little softer, a little shorter and gentler. “Didn’t think I’d ever see Darkwing Duck without his mask. Always thought he was the superhero in the dark, you know.” She wiggled her fingers, trying to make them look spooky and failing laughably. “The terror that flaps in the night and all that!”

He looked back towards Gosalyn, who was trying her best to demand Launchpad drive her faster in the wheelchair around the hospital floors. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “Well… Darkwing’s a little different, now.”

“Good different?”

“Good different. Definitely good different.”

* * *

She’s instructed to stay on bedrest for a week, which was fine after two days worth of video games and comic books in a hospital, but by day three, and finally back at home, she was a collapsing sun of energy ready to explode.

And an energetic Gosalyn was a crazy Gosalyn.

“I’m bored!”

“Yes, well, that’s what happens when you get hurt.”

“This sucks.”

“It does. Royally.”

“Gah!” She flopped over the back of the couch, looking at him upside down. There was a white bandage around her chest, and it winked at him when her shirt slipped down her shoulder. Her arm was in a sling, and he wasn’t sure how she’d even managed to climb the couch in the first place. “I almost want to go back to school, tomorrow!”

He clutched his sweater. “Be still my heart!”

“Da-aa-d!”

It was later in the day. The sun was drifting down past the trees, burning the last of its light away across the asphalt. Their living room was all gold and red, little patches of window-broken light finally starting to drift off.

He had a book open in front of him, but when she slid farther down the couches back, her hair fell in the way. He rolled his eyes and swatted at her head. “You’re in the way, Gosalyn. And didn’t the doctors say not to move?”

“They work for the government. They can’t tell me what to do.”

“Yeah, well, you can take down the system later, Miss Vive la Révolution. But my house, my rules.” He flicked her beak and she scowled up at him. “And I say no moving.”

“This is worse than you grounding me.”

“I can do that too, if it makes it better.”

“Darkwing Duck has too much mercy to kick a girl when she’s down!”

“Yeah, well, Drake Mallard isn’t feeling too merciful.” He poked her side and she squealed, sliding the rest of the way down the couch until her back was lying on the cushions, her legs propped up, feet facing the ceiling.

“I could take you down.”

“Okay, sweetheart.”

“I will,” she said, pointing firmly up at him. “I’ll take you down tomorrow! And you’ll be  _so sorry_  you messed with the likes of Quiverwing Quack! She could take you down one-armed! Darkwing Duck has  _nothing_  on her!”

“That’s nice, honey.”

She growled and crossed her good arm.

He rolled his eyes and went back to his book.

There was silence all around them. It was a rare occurrence in the home. No shouting. No digging for soccer bags. No scrambles for dinner. She was down for the count, at least until her two weeks were up (though he had his suspicions that she’d break those rules quickly) and it was easy to let it swallow you up.

When the reddish sky had sighed its way to dark, he started yawning, and so did she.

They didn’t bother with dinner. Neither of them was much hungry.

Getting up the stairs was hard, so they decided not to. The downstairs was creatively turned into a sort of bunker for the night. He pushed back the couch and she somehow convinced him to make a fort, directing the process from the coffee table, using her good arm to point at places like a Roman Emperor.

“You know,” he said, tucking sheets under a chair leg, “if you’re so keen on a fort, you could build it.”

“Father! You’d make a poor, crippled child work!” She batted her eyes. “I always new you were a tyrant-“

He snorted. “Fine. But if you see a cut in your allowance, know it was my paycheck.”

“Dad!”

“Talk to the union, dear.”

It gets built, somehow. A little shabby. A little droopy. But it’s his first time building a fort. It’s his first time with a lot of things, really-

(goldfish)

(juice)

(children)

-and she says that she’ll let it slide this once.

He got her the pills the doctors had given them, a glass of water for her, a cup of tea for himself. When it gets darker, they pile more pillows inside and crawl in. The space is small, and his legs stick out from under the top. He didn’t mind.

She curled up against him in the dark, sticking her bill under his arm, curling up her legs until her knees pressed into his side.

“Dad?” Her voice cuts through the dark.

He yawned. Hummed.

“Can we play video games tomorrow?”

He yawned again. SHUSH had said something about a gig open to him and Launchpad if he’d wanted it, and he’d been considering asking Binkie if she’d babysit but… “Sure, Gos.”

The space was filled with soft feathers. Watermelon shampoo. The feeling of the tiny girl ( _his_  tiny girl) pressed against him. He dragged her closer.

“Dad?”

“Bedtime, Gos.”

“Dad.”

A hum.

 _”Dad_?”

 _”Sleeping_ , Gos.”

A pause. Then: “I just need you to know,” she said, lifting her head, “tomorrow, when we play Mario Kart, I  _will_  crush you. You ready for that?”

Drake Mallard wasn’t ready to love something, and suddenly he finds that he loves Gosalyn enough that it hurts every fibre of his being. Holding her there, feeling his blood thrum her name, he thinks that. That he loves her, loves something, so much that it’s beyond name. 

And if it had a name, it would probably be hers. 

It hurts. 

He never wants it  _not_  to hurt. 

“Dad?” She kicks his side. “I asked if you were ready?” 

He managed a tired snort and dropped a kiss to her head. “I know,” he said, tucking Gosalyn closer. 

( _H_ _is_  Gosalyn, who was all juice and goldfish and new houses and green jello and seven goals in one game and worth taking off every single mask for. Worth  _tearing_ and _crumbling_ and _fa ll i n g_ for

And he is

He’s absolutely falling)

“I’m ready.” 

* * *

(He’s not.) 

(But he falls anyway)


End file.
